


Strays

by DiceLyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blackwater AU, F/M, friends in low places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27267073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiceLyre/pseuds/DiceLyre
Summary: "Seven save us," Sansa whispered. A low chuckle made her shriek and spin around."Not bloody likely, girl," said the rough voice Sansa could never mistake, not even when it was bloated with wine and fear.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark
Kudos: 6





	Strays

A/N: My own version of what could have gone down during the Battle of the Blackwater. I wrote this without refreshing myself on the chronology of the Battle, so certain moments mentioned might be off by an hour or three.

This is NOT a romantic Sansa/Sandor fic because she is literally a child, ew, but their friendship and genuine concern for each other across limitations of rank and convoluted alliances have always spoken to me. Also, I sorely needed to write a piece where Sansa never falls into Littlefinger's hands for my own happiness.

* * *

**STRAYS**

All pounding heart and gasping breath, Sansa fled to her bedroom, the balls of her feet slapping against stone that rang cold and bruising through her thin soles. She refused to look back for fear that Ser Ilyn's mad eyes would be shining in the torchlight, his blade descending upon her in bloodlust.

_Mother be with me_ , Sansa prayed as she began the ascent to her chambers, _and by the Warrior, let Joff die_.

She shook for fear of his safe return, her mind a white sunburst that burned too bright to look at, and she burst through the door of her dark bedroom with chattering teeth. The door barred, she flew to the open window and leaned out to observe the fray. The bay was a riot of fire and flashing steel, the night sky pregnant with the curses and wails of dying men.

"Seven save us," Sansa whispered.

A low chuckle made her shriek and spin around.

"Not bloody likely, girl," said the rough voice Sansa could never mistake, not even when it was bloated with wine and fear.

There was a shape in the shadows that rose into the form of Sandor Clegane. In the faint glint of the firelight from the bay, she could see that his eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, his body caked in sweat and blood and mud. He looked like a war horse three battles past his limit, bristling with the boundless tension of an unbroken stallion.

And then the bay exploded into green flame, throwing the details of Sansa's room into relief like a flash of lighting, and she saw for the first time the Hound's naked fear. He cowered back against the wall, haunted eyes fixed on the nightmare reflecting the cursed fire, and the last of Sansa's terror of the man melted away.

He wouldn't hurt her.

"Why are you here?" Sansa asked, her voice painfully sweet against the din, and his eyes snapped back to hers.

"I'm leaving," he rasped. "I'm getting out of this stinking hellhole. Let the nobles die for nobility. They won't get any more help from me."

"Leaving." Sansa repeated, the word hollow in her mouth. She was gripping her hands tightly, knuckles white, to keep from fussing like she wanted. Sansa felt like she was going out of her skin, but was oddly contented to share her terror with the one person who still treated her like herself. The Hound was coarse and rude, but he wasn't a liar.

After a deep drink from his wineskin, the Hound wiped his mouth and appraised her.

"Came to see if you wanted to come."

She held her breath, ears ringing, not daring to believe him. _It's a trick, it's a trick, it must be_ , she thought, and so she said nothing.

"I could keep you safe. No one would hurt you, I'd kill 'em first. I can take you home."

_A trick_ , she thought, numb.

"Why?" It was more plea than question; why her, why now, why dangle this opportunity before her if only to have it end with her head on the chopping block.

The Hound cocked his head, the burnt corner of his mouth pulling into a grimace.

"You don't belong here, little bird, and neither do I."

Her face white, Sansa spent a moment in intense concentration, weighing the options and risks and the odds against her until she realized that none of it mattered. She was dead one way or the other.

"No," she said dazedly. "No, we don't."

Sansa raised her gaze to his, taking in his coarseness, his wine-stink, the blade at his hip he had wielded in her defense. He was not a knight, he did not make her feel safe, but he did feel like an ally. Perhaps even a friend, if such a thing could form within the poison bog of King's Landing.

He waited for her in silence, the panic rolling off him in waves, and she appreciated his patience in this place that waited for no one.

A decision, a deep breath.

"Take me home, Sandor. Please."

And so he did.


End file.
